


Mini Tumblr Thingies

by littlejedi



Category: Long Exposure (Webcomic)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 10:05:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlejedi/pseuds/littlejedi
Summary: i thought i should post the little things i usually only post to tumblr here, so here they are!





	1. Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> first is a flowershop au inspired by this fanart on tumblr: https://sadcooki.tumblr.com/post/164994351968/i-forgot-i-started-this-gardenshop-au-drawin

It’s a Wednesday, their slowest day of the week. Even worse yet it’s a chilly, windy Wednesday; the clear sky and bright sun deceptive of the dropping October temperatures. Everybody’s bought their Mums for the fall season and the Sunflowers in their greenhouse are starting to wilt a bit.

First thing Mitch does is check on the Indian corn, then the dried Sumac his mom wants to make wreaths with. The heat is on, he’s sure of it, since the warm gust of air that had welcomed him in the early morning had made his eyes tired and heavy.

Regardless, he checks the thermostat, then makes his way back to the greenhouse. It’s barely the size of a backyard shed, lined with damaged plywood shelves on all sides. He starts at the bottom shelf, gently moving each pot out just slightly to check on the plant’s growth.

October is his least favorite month for succulents, but he checks each and every one all the same.

The bottom shelf is the chilliest, populated by small terracotta pots of cold-hardy Senecio Haworthii Cocoon Plant. He runs his fingertips over the fine hair of the plant. They won’t produce their pretty yellow flowers for some time, but they’re sprouting up happily ahead of schedule.

Next shelf up is his favorite for the month, Kalanchoe Tomentosa. For now, these are the smallest, but they’ll grow nicely. The little buds will mature to become alluring, but dangerous; he doesn’t sell them to people with cats or kids or anything likely to eat it, because it’s super poisonous. Which is pretty killer, if you ask him.

Top shelf are his pride and joy, the Echinocereus Reichenbachii. The cacti are growing thick with mean spikes despite the poor conditions, and he grins. It’ll be hard to sell these beauties.

He never actually made it far enough in science classes for their technical names to mean dick to him, but he still calls each and every one by its given name. Writes them down, knows how to pronounce them, makes an effort to remember them. It’s a respect thing. It’s probably why they grow for him even in the cooler weather with only the protection of their shitty, ramshackle greenhouse.

He turns away, crouching to check the bed of soil on the floor. Heavy leaves and thick vines twist and curl through the dirt and onto the floor, yellow flowers dotting the green. A few yellowish pumpkins cling to the vines.

The bell on the door jingles, alerting him of his Mom’s arrival.

That, and her shrill voice rings out, “OH brrr, it’s cold as a witch’s tit outside! Feels so nice in here, huh, Mitchy?”

“Yup,” he calls back, trimming the dead leaves from the pumpkin plant and carefully shutting the door to the greenhouse to amble his way back inside.

“Gonna be a slow day, huh?”

“Mm,” he grunts. He’s not exactly looking forward to being here all day, yet again, just like every other day.

But supporting his mom’s dream is worth it. So it’s okay. As Henrietta pulls her hair up into a ponytail and lights her first cigarette of the day, he sighs. It’s gonna be a long one. Winter sales are painfully slow this time of year. Too far from Halloween from pumpkins, but they can’t grow that many anyway. Too wintery for gardens, because everyone’s content letting their summer flowers die off. Far, far off from the holiday season of holly and berry and poinsettia.

Flower shop limbo. What purgatory feels like, probably.

Henrietta busies herself all morning, humming and smoking while she makes pretty wreathes. Burlap bows and twine wrap her creations, brightened by the Indian corn and Sumac Mitch had fetched for her. He moves their larger plants and bushes around at his Mom’s command, and in no time he’s caked head to toe in dirt.

“I changed my mind, put that Little Henry on the top shelf and move the Brandywine out to the front, so people can see it.”

“In the window?”

“No, next to the doors! And look,” she holds up one of her creations happily, “so cute. Would this be nice on the door?”

“Yeah, I think it’d be perfect,” he responds, smiling a bit. Her excitement about the little things makes the terrible mundaneness of this place bearable. He lugs the Brandywine out to the front, shivering as a large gust whips down the narrow street. A shirt with sleeves probably would have been a good decision today, he thinks as he hangs Henrietta’s decoration on the door. As he’s lugging the second, inexplicably heavier Brandywine over their doorjam, he hears the quick shuffle of footsteps interrupt the silent morning.

Must be 9:30 already. The morning really flew by. Pretending not to look, he stares from the side of his eye at the figure ambling down the street. The boy wraps his jacket tighter around himself, ducking his head as the sharp winds blow his wild, chocolate brown curls around. The sun’s doing that thing it always does around this time, becomes bright and golden as the boy walks down the street, illuminating all the shop windows and catching the mailboxes.

Almost like the dark-haired boy himself is the sun, brightening everything for a single glorious moment before he ducks into the cafe across the street. Mitch sighs. Another day, another opportunity to talk to him passed because he’s too goddamn chicken. How long had he been watching him from afar? Maybe something like 8 months now. He’s thought about going into the cafe, ordering something for the chance to talk to the guy, but that’s too... forced. Lost in thought, he barely hears his Mom calling him from inside.

She’s hand-painted them a sign, “Freddie’s Flowers” in happy blue letters on white, and it’s his job to hang it above the stained red awning on the front of the building. He teeters on the very top step of a rickety ladder, his knees wavering as he grips nails between his teeth and hammers the sign into the wood siding. Another big gust of wind and he’s shaking, from cold and the shuddering ladder.

“Hey up there,” he hears a musical voice call. He looks down, squinting against the sunshine. Big green eyes and a shy smile greet him. The air is knocked from his lungs.

It’s the boy.

Mitch nearly inhales a nail as he drops the hammer, fumbling it in his hands and getting far too close to dropping off the ladder. He scrambles down, awkward, gangly limbs barely catching the rungs before his ratty sneakers hit the pavement.

The boy’s so small. Even prettier up close. A smattering of freckles adorns him, from the expanse of his smooth forehead, down the curve of his neck, then disappear under the collar of his sweater. His teeth are pearly, perfectly straight below his lips, and he’s still grinning. His curls are loose, wild, look like they feel so incredibly soft. He smells amazing.

Mitch hasn’t said anything for almost a solid minute, and the boy is starting to look slightly unnerved.

“Hi. Hey,” Mitch breathes.

“Hi,” the boy’s smile grows, “Are you Freddie?”

“Ah, no. I’m Mitch,” his words falter only slightly. It’s been years since he’s been called his brothers name.

“Oh, nice to meet you. I’m Jonas, I work- like, right there,” he finishes with a soft giggle, pointing across the street.

“Yeah, I know,” Mitch says automatically. “I see you- I see you most days, walking in,” he prattles, trying to recover as his face flushes red.

“I usually see you, too,” Jonas smiles softly, “but you’ve never come in, so I thought I’d bring something to you.” He raises a white cup, stamped with a picture of a Magnolia flower, and extends it out to Mitch.

Goddamn he fucking hates coffee. But he takes it, his freezing fingers brushing against Jonas’ as he takes it and knocks back a swig.

I mean, at least the boy tried to make it drinkable. There’s probably cream and sugar in it, but fuck, it’s still so disgusting. He keeps his face straight as the bitter liquid sits on his tongue.

“Thanks, it’s good,” he lies. “I needed this.”

“Yeah, I just thought you looked hot- COLD. I thought you looked cold. I thought you _needed_ something hot. To drink. So I brought you coffee,” a blush is rising from Jonas’ neck, over his cheeks and up to his hairline as he sputters the words out.

“No, it’s perfect, I did,” Mitch responds quickly. “Thanks, thank you.”

They stay quiet for a moment, Jonas staring into the window of the shop, Mitch staring at Jonas.

“I’ll see you around then, right?” Jonas asks, cocking his head to the side and looking painfully cute.

“Yeah,” Mitch answers back far too quickly, then clears his throat. “Definitely.” They smile at each other for just a second before Jonas nods and turns away, walking quickly back into the cafe across the street. His heart is beating rapidly.

So that didn’t go amazing. He wasn’t smooth or flirtatious or charming like he had always dreamed he’d be when he finally got the balls to talk to Jonas, but it could’ve gone worse. He stares through the window of the cafe and takes another sip of coffee, using everything in him not to shudder at the taste. Through the window he catches Jonas’ green eyes on him again. They widen in embarrassment as he looks down and away, shuffling away from the glass. Mitch grins.

Yeah. That definitely could’ve gone worse.

The next day he comes in late, lugging a heavy box of plastic pots from their garden supplier and grunts his way through the backdoor. He’s in a shitty mood. Their supplier got them the wrong size pots, it had started to pour as he was loading them into the truck, and worst of all he didn’t see Jonas through the cafe window. He slings his apron over his neck lazily as he pushes his soaking wet hair back. Henriettas’ chattering away to a customer at the counter, but he doesn’t bother paying attention, standing on his tiptoes to pull a heavy Oakleaf Hydrangea from the top shelf someone had ordered earlier.

“Hey up there,” a familiar voice rings out, and he can’t control how fast he spins around with a grin.

“Hey! It’s- it’s Jonas, right?” Mitch asks, making like he hasn’t been repeating the name over and over in his head since the moment he heard it.

“Yeah. I needed some flowers for the tables, so of course I’d come here. I was... wondering where you were,” Jonas finishes quickly, staring intently at Mitch’s exposed arms then darting his eyes away to the bush.

“I had to pick up a delivery,” Mitch says, bending to place the plant down, “so what’re you thinkin’ for the tables?”

“Gosh. I have no idea,” Jonas lets out an embarrassed, breathy laugh. “Something... Fall-y? Yellow, or oranges maybe? Reds? I’m terrible at this stuff.”

“I have an idea. C’mere” he nods, leading Jonas to their fridge and bending to gather some stems. “I’ll do it. Just some sprigs, yeah?”

“Yeah, the vases are really small, and we have five tables,” Jonas leans down to watch what he’s doing, and Mitch stops breathing. He smells like warm bread and vanilla, and his hand lays softly on Mitch’s shoulder to balance himself.

“How’s, uh, how’s this?” he asks, raising a small arrangement. “Antique Rose, Foxglove, Agonis and some Privet Berries. It’s not really what you asked for, but-”

“No! No, it’s perfect. But how much-”

“Nothing. Consider ‘em payback for the coffee,” Mitch says, red face turned away from Jonas as the small hand squeezes his shoulder. His long fingers waver a bit as he wraps the arrangements with twine.

When he stands to hand them over, Jonas beams up at him. He’s breathless when Jonas’ fingers graze his, sending electricity down his arms as he thanks him for the flowers. The smaller boy walks out with a shy wave, and bids goodbye to Henrietta. Mitch watches him walk the entire way back to the cafe. His mom clears her throat and he looks over to her. She’s got a Cheshire grin.

“He’s cute as hell.”

“Right?”

“So ask him out!”

_“Him?_ He’s way outta my league. I’ll just... keep givin’ him flowers. And drinkin’ that nasty coffee,” he makes a face. Henrietta shakes her head, smiling as she plucks a stem of Thistle from his t-shirt.

Jonas brings him a coffee the next morning.

And the next one.

And the next afternoon, when he comes in late again from delivery. He does the cafe’s flowers once a week as repayment. Months since their first meeting, Mitch still hasn’t gotten the courage to take anything further than a shy smile, a familiar hello, a kind favor. Though they don’t talk much, their encounters are always filled with touch. A soft, small hand on his bicep. Fingers grazing his and remaining on them just a second too long. Once he had even pulled a leaf from Jonas’ curls, knees weak at the silkiness of his hair.

One rainy day, when Jonas brings him a drink and turns to leave, Mitch catches his arm.

“Wait,” he says, and he swears when Jonas turns back around he looks hopeful. “I’m about to take a break. Do you... Wanna sit down with me?”

“Sure,” Jonas breathes back. Mitch drops his arm and leads him to the back, pulling out a folding chair and gesturing to it as he leans against the potting table.

“Sid’ll probably wonder where I am,” Jonas muses, but plops down in the chair as his eyes scan the ribbon wall, the bouquet wraps, the filler flowers in the cooler. Their knees are almost touching in the close space. He doesn’t stay seated for long before his eyes widen and he rises, brushing past Mitch to the cooler and pointing at a wedding arrangement.

“This is gorgeous!” he grins, and Mitch comes up behind him.

“Yeah, can’t take credit for that. That was my Mom... but I’ll make you one like that. If you want it.” One of his long arms is caging Jonas in against the cooler, the other places the coffee down and shoves into his pocket.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Jonas waves noncommittally and glances back at him.

“You... I dunno. You wouldn’t have to. Ask, I mean,” he’s fumbling and blushing.

“Why not?”

“Well,” he starts, his eyes on the back of Jonas’ neck as he stares into the cooler, “I like doin’ flowers for you. You appreciate ‘em.” Jonas laughs and turns, his back pressed against the glass and his front nearly pressed against Mitch. Bravely, Mitch doesn’t back up or retreat. He keeps close.

“That’s how I feel about bringing you coffee, too,” Jonas says almost dreamily, then hums out a laugh. “Feels nice.”

Jonas’ gem-green eyes are locked on his, and he’s melting. His skin sears as Jonas shifts against him, their torsos so close to touching, their hands knocking intermittently as Jonas moves and he feels a knee brush against his. It’s electric.

“I dunno... I feel kinda shitty,” he says honestly, staring down with adoration. Jonas’ eyes become alarmed.

“What? Why?”

“I mean... I’ve kinda been lyin’ to ya,” the words are said with a sheepish grin.

“About what?”

“You won’t get mad?”

“I hope not,” Jonas retorts with a cocked eyebrow. Mitch snorts.

“I... don’t like coffee.” He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck and casting his eyes down as Jonas inhales. He hears giggling, bubbly and musical but slightly muffled. Jonas’ freckled hand is over his mouth. He shakes his head as he brings the hand to run through his curls.

“I don’t believe it,” he says, still laughing softly, “I- I’m actually really allergic to flowers.” Mitch bites his lower lips and snorts, chuckling through his teeth as they both turn bright red.

“I like your coffee, though,” he says after an extended silence.

“Your flowers don’t bother me that much, either,” Jonas grins, so bright and gorgeous that Mitch can’t stand not touching him for a moment longer. He brings his hands up to cradle Jonas’ cheeks, reveling in the warmth of them under his cold fingers. Jonas’ smile drops, but his eyes brighten as they grow closer, close than they’ve ever been.

Mitch closes the gap quickly, his eyes slipping closed as he softens into the warmth of Jonas’ mouth. Arms wind around his neck and pull him closer as they kiss slowly, the world seeming to disappear. He could spend forever like this, only focusing on Jonas and his lips and skin and smell. He intends to, actually.

He teases Jonas lower lips with his teeth, tastes his tongue and presses them firmly together. Small steps close the gap between their bodies, and suddenly he’s pressing Jonas into the cool glass while hands stroke the back of his neck gently. Jonas’ panting is one of the most magnificent sounds he’s ever heard, that along with the soft whine which escapes him.

“Oh, Mitch,” Jonas moans, just above a whisper. He was enamored before, but now he’s beyond smitten hearing the sound of his name on Jonas’ lips.

“God, Joey baby, that sounds nice,” he sighs between their kisses, his heart fluttering as Jonas’ hands make their way into his hair. They’re in heaven, wrapped up in each other for what seems like an eternity, shutting off everything but the parts of themselves dedicated to the other.

A loud bang makes them jump and instantly they’re feet apart, wiping their swollen lips and blushing furiously.

“Mit- Oh fuck, shit, sorry! Keep goin’, sorry!” Henrietta raises her eyebrows, waving her hands and backing out of the door. Their breathing is heavy as they look back at each other.

“So. D’ya wanna... go out sometime? On a real date?” Mitch says, swallowing thickly.

“That sounds pretty great,” Jonas flushes with a smile, still out of breath. “We can go for coffee.”

“Yeah. I’ll bring flowers.”


	2. You're My Gutter Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a girlfriends au written for a friend, birthday themed

There’s just something about birthdays which is so divisive. Either people love their birthdays, spend the entire month gearing up and make sure they have some wild plan to celebrate, or they despise them and would rather spend it as another day. Joan thinks that’s too black and white. Yes, birthdays are just another day, but it’s a special day nonetheless. She likes to celebrate. Feeling special for a day can be fun.

Sid’s face appears to her first thing in the morning. His “happy birthday!” is joyful, but his face is sheepish. She inches up in bed, rubbing her eyes as he plops onto the edge of the mattress.

“Happy birthday, what’s with the wake-up call?” She speaks through a yawn, and Sid looks down at his hands.

“So I know we, like, always spend our birthday together…” he looks up, studying her face. She arches an eyebrow in confusion.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… but Mike and Paige surprised me with a ticket to Jimmy Eat World… and they could only get one. But if you don’t want me to go I totally get it, dude-”

“No,” Joan smiles, but it feels stiff and pinched. “That’s awesome! You have to go. I’m sure Mich will want to do something, anyways!” Her voice rises just a touch too much at the end of her sentence.

“Awesome! Thanks Jojo, I’ll make it up to you I promise! Tell Mich I owe her one- wait, actually, don’t.” Sid is out the door without another look. She shakes her head, realizing she’s still plastered with her fake grin. Sid won’t have to owe Mich one, because Mich forgot her birthday. Her girlfriend hasn’t mentioned a thing about it lately. Even Josefina hadn’t said anything about it, and she  _never_  forgets a birthday. And last night, her back-up plan with Louise fell through, because her only friend other than Sid and Mich is Dungeon Master for the day. She just slides out of bed, feeling more slime than person as she lazily grabs a towel and makes her way to the shower.

The house is shockingly quiet when she pads downstairs, which any other day would be great. Usually, Steve makes chocolate chip pancakes on birthdays, but the kitchen still smells like their grapefruit disinfectant he’d wiped the counters down with last night. A note stuck to the fridge tells Joan that her foster dad and two of the foster kids are at the walk-in clinic to deal with some raging ear infections.

‘Cereal is in the cabinet, I’m sorry you two! Happy Birthday!’ The note ends with a little drawing of a balloon.

“Good morning, Joan.” Deena’s voice and footsteps interrupt the silence in the house.

“Good morning,” she says, standing on her tiptoes to pull a bowl out of the cabinet, turning to face her foster mom.

“Happy birthday. Any plans?” Deena is straightening her tie and flattening her collar in the hallway mirror, and Joan knows she isn’t actually interested in the slightest.

“Uh… nothing really. Just hanging out here, I guess.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t you be doing something with Sidney?”

“He’s, um, he’s busy.”

“What about your other friend?” Joan flinches a little at the condescending edge in Deena’s sharp words

“Louise’s busy too, it’s no big deal, I don’t-”

“Well if you’re going to be around all day, don’t just sit around eating and playing video games. Do something productive.”

“I… will.” Joan stares into the empty bowl in her hands, no longer hungry. Deena grabs her briefcase and is out the door with a militant nod. Joan simply stares out the window, into the street, wishing it was raining. The rain would match her mood just a bit better. But it’s bright, sunny, the sky is cloudless and the air is warm.

And she’s alone. Mich had texted her early in the morning, around 3.

**Mich | 3:04 AM**

**visitn my dad at th penn tmrow, prob ly be done llate**

Joan rubs her thumb over the screen of her phone, dark and void of messages, as she continues to stare out the window. With a pit in her stomach she slowly puts the bowl away and trudges up to her room to pull her sneakers on and grab her board.

She skates lazily, without purpose, without any real destination. Even the streets are empty, she realizes, as she pushes her foot softly against the pavement. She’s rolling slowly towards the industrial park near the high school, her eyes cast downwards at the glittering asphalt which flows away under her deck as she glides along. She presses her sneaker against the pavement as the noises of construction, beeps and hums and shouts, emanate from behind the fence. She can’t help but let out a breathy, humorless laugh, because the one place she wanted to actually be alone is flooded with people in reflective vests and hardhats. She stands for a bit, feeling defeated, before her eyes start to burn, and she turns on her heel. She practically tosses her board out in front of her, nearly falling off as she jumps onto it and pushes furiously, her sneaker slamming the ground rhythmically, desperately.

Gritting her teeth as the wind whips her face and blows her hair around she continues picking up speed, wanting to go faster, needing to go faster, frantic to get away. She throws her entire body into pushing her foot quicker, ignoring the way the board begins to waver beneath her foot. The big hill down towards the woods appears over the horizon, and her heart beats with something different than her exhaustion. She still doesn’t stop pushing. The road begins to dip downward, plummeting towards the earth in a slope that’s anything but gradual that makes her stomach rise to her throat. The board stops wavering and starts shaking, almost vibrating under her feet, and her stomach drops. Steadying herself would be futile, so Joan just lets one good wobble toss her off near the base of the hill.

It’s nothing for a moment while she’s airborne, watching the grass and asphalt grow closer to her face, feeling like she’s floating except much more terrified.

It hurts when she hits the pavement, landing right on her side with her hand out reflexively to catch herself. The heel of her palm grates against the street, and her arms starts to sear as it meets pavement. The initial impact is hard, but what hurts worse is the sliding. Her shirt inches up as she slides, her side tearing against the road. She rolls once and stops, on her back, staring at the warm cloudless sky. She sniffles a bit, letting a tear curl down the side of her face into her ear before it tickles and she wipes it away.

That was dramatic and pointless. She squeezes her eyes and sits up, wincing as her side folds, irritating her road rash. She peeks an eye open at her hand, torn skin with beads of red beginning to seep up. She can see blood gathering under her skin, watches the purple beginning to bloom all the way up her arm. It’ll be nasty, dark purples and reds and maroons over most of her skin for a good week. She studies it closer, groaning as she eyes flecks of stray gravel sprinkled along the injury. She stands then, on legs quivering from leftover adrenaline and fear, and limps over to her board before staring down the road towards the ocean.

The last thing Joan is going to do today is sit around that big empty house, she just wants to be at the one place that means anything. The cove without Mich, without Sid, totally alone… might feel incomplete. But she trudges on, slowly, through the trees and down until the air starts to smell salty. Her heart drops when she spots a figure on the beach, but it doesn’t stop her from climbing down anyway. She decides to stay at the far end, away from the stranger, tossing her board against the rocks with a clatter and plopping down in the sand. She closes her eyes and lets out a long breath, painfully aware of her stinging skin as the bright sun shines through her eyelids.

“Joanie?”

Her eyes blow open and she scrambles up to a tall figure making it’s way over. Mich’s long strides carry her over in no time, her face colored with shock.

“What’re you doin’ here, I didn’t want you to- oh fuck,” Mitch barks, eyes widening at the arm Joan cradles. She stares at Joan, closing the distance between them to gently unfurl Joan’s fingers away and hissing at the nasty scrape.

“It’s n-nothing,” Joan lies, feeling embarrassed and pathetic, wincing when Mitch turns her arm to examine more of it.

“Nothing? This ain’t nothing, the fuck happened? Did you get hit by a goddamn car? You’re bleedin’ through your shirt,” Mich darts a hand out to catch the hem of her t-shirt and yank it upward, causing her to whimper as the fabric peels away from her raw skin.

“I-I fell, I just fell,” Joan sniffles, still unable to meet the taller girl’s eyes. “I told you it’s nothing, why are you here?”

“Shit, this looks bad. I don’t have any, like, band aids or nothing. Shit. Can you put ocean water on cuts? You can right, it’s like good for them, right? I’m gonna go get some- but what if it isn’t? I don’t know. Alcohol you can put on. I’m gonna call Bite, he can bring us some vodka to pour on it or something-”

Joan snorts at that. Mich looks so confused, frantic, and is ready to give her a vodka bath.

“It’s not that type of alcohol, but I think seawater is okay… I’ll- I don’t need it though. I’ll just go home and take care of it.”

“Go… home?” Mich looks incredulous. “You just got here, you’re tellin’ me you wanna walk all the way home to deal with-”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’d rather go,” Joan speaks quickly, her eyes on the sand.

“O…kay then,” the taller girl’s face shifts from worry to confusion, “I’ll go with you.”

“No.”

_“No?”_  Mich doesn’t sound angry, exactly. More incredulous, but Joan’s blood boils. Mich doesn’t get to ignore her for the morning and forget about her birthday then just tag along when she so pleases.

“I came here to be alone. So I’ll just go be alone at home. Aren’t you supposed to be visiting your dad?” Her words have a bite to them, but despite that, Mich’s look softens.

“Joanie, I don’t want you to be alone. It’s your birthday for shit’s sake.”

“What? You- you  _remembered?_  You haven’t said a  _thing_ lately, and then you’ve been ignoring my texts all morning telling me you’re somewhere else.”

“Yeah,” Mich grins, “I was tryin’ to plan a surprise but guess I didn’t do so good.” She raises her arms out and waves her hands weakly.  _“Surprise.”_

Joan’s hands ball up into fists as Mich’s grin becomes apologetic and guilty. Mich had known the whole time and hadn’t said a word. She’d let her believe that the one person she cared about more than anything had forgotten the one day that she mattered. And now she’s here, in their most special and sacred place, offering to take time away from planning her surprise to clean up Joan’s scratches. When Joan starts to cry, Mich jumps, seemingly convinced she needs to start profusely apologizing, but Joan shakes her head.

“No, that’s not- I’m not sad. Thanks,” she sniffles, wiping her eyes with her good hand. “The surprise is great, whatever it is. I love it already.” Mich wraps her into a hug and kisses the top of her head, tugging her down towards the shoreline. She’s still sniffling as they wade ankle-deep into the gentle waves, only pausing when Mitch peels her tank top off to soak it with water. Joan yelps when her skin is blotted, winces when Mich gently wipes away the gravel. She’s bombarded with gentle pecks on the top of her head, on her shoulders, on her fingers as Mich works gingerly, frantically responding “Shit I know shit it’ll be over soon I’m sorry I’m sorry I hope it don’t hurt too bad,” every time she squeaks out a noise.

Mich hums out a noise of contentment as she pulls Joan’s shirt down and back into place, wringing the stained-pink saltwater out of her tank top. Joan inspects her skin, beginning to bloom with bruises, then looks up at her girlfriend.

“You really have a surprise for me?”

“Yeah,” Mich’s lips curl into an enormous grin. “I mean, it’s nothin’ special, but I think you’ll like it.”

Mich leads her to an outcropping of rock, hanging her top on it to dry in the sun and plopping down on a blanket which sits on the sand. There’s an unmistakable smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce which makes Joan’s mouth water, reminding her she hasn’t eaten anything today. Two presents, terribly wrapped with newspaper and duct tape, sit next to a plain white box in the shade.

“Your clone bought a pizza for us, I think he feels bad for leavin’ you. But I’m glad I got you all to myself today,” her girlfriend winks as she opens the pizza box and hands a slice to Joan, who settles on the blanket next to her. Mich strokes her thigh as she eats, bringing out the mystery box.

“Cupcakes or presents first?”

“I get both?” Joan speaks through a mouthful of food, her eyes widening as Mich opens the box. The cupcakes are somehow even uglier than the presents, with cake crumbs all over the crooked, uneven frosting.

“Josi helped me with these so even though they’re ugly as shit, they’ll taste good,” Mich laughs. “Bite helped me pick out your presents. Actually, even Clem helped me with this one.”

“I… I thought you guys had all forgotten…” Joan plucks a cupcake from the box, focusing intently on tearing the wrapper off to ignore the stinging in her eyes.

“You really thought I’d forget?” Mich’s voice is so soft and earnest, and it doesn’t help the her watery eyes. “I couldn’t wait. ‘Cuz I’ve wanted to give you this present  _forever_. C’mon, open it.”

“Jeez, one thing at a time!” She laughs, swallowing the cake and letting Mich shove the box into her lap. The wrapping paper is torn away and discarded quickly, the lid flipped open. Then nothing.

She stares into the box, mouth agape. Then she looks back up to Mich. And back into the box again.

“Are you… are you serious? How…?”

“Clem’s grandma had it in her house, it actually works too!” Mich is practically yelling, inches from her. “Do you like it?” Joan lets out a wobbling breath.

“It  _works?_  Mich, it’s- it’s incredible,” she picks up the camera delicately, turning it in her hands. A vintage SX-70 Polaroid instant camera, a little dinged up but in nearly perfect condition. And it’s all hers. Her lower lip begins to quiver, and Mich bursts into laughter, leaning over to pull her face in and smother it with kisses. She tries to rear back, be serious for a moment, but Mich doesn’t let up and soon she’s squealing with laughter too. Her girlfriend leans too far and falls into her lap, resting her head on Joan’s denim-clad thigh.

“Next present,” she demands, waving it in one of her big hands.

“I don’t want anymore presents, the camera’s too hard to follow,” Joan teases, grabbing the present. Mich smiles up at her softly, bringing a hand up to stroke at her knee as she tears the package open. Joan’s smile falls and she looks down with an eyebrow cocked, unimpressed.

“Michelle. Mueller.”

Mich starts laughing so hard she’s choking, curled into herself with her hands around her abdomen, burying her face into Joan’s leg as she shakes with each bark. Joan fishes the outfit from the box, holding it up with one finger. It’s lacy and red with more straps than she even knows what to do with. It looks like the world’s flimsiest, sexiest torture device/rock-climbing harness. Mich is wiping tears away from her eyes.

“I couldn’t help myself, you’re gonna look so sexy in it-”

“I’d look like a tied-up holiday ham!” she yelps, her voice going shrill, and Mich breaks into more loud laughter. “I am  _never_  putting this on.”

“Joanie, baby, please,” Mich whines, bolting upright and grinning maniacally just inches from her face.

“No.”

“Pleeeeease?” She leans in and kisses at Joan’s ear, winding long arms around her shoulders.

_“… Maybe.”_  Joan hisses, leaning her head to the side to expose her neck to her girlfriend. She feels Mich’s smile widen even more against her skin as big teeth make their way to her neck.

“Good enough for me. Happy birthday, Joanie.”


	3. Your Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> joey bleaches mitch's hair and generally drools over him

Jonas pushes through the heavy front doors of Sellwood High, moving with a crowd of people who push and shove and bump their way to freedom. It’s a Thursday, he _hates_ Thursdays. Such a tease for the weekend. Not like he does anything particularly special, really. Plays video games, practices tricks with Sidney... and lately, waits for Mitch Mueller to text him and whisk him off for a little secret troublemaking. If Jonas wasn’t such a goody two-shoes, he’d probably have much more fun. But he’s getting there.

Like today, he told Dean and Sue he was staying late to tutor a girl from his math class. But in reality, he’s heading to Mitch’s to do their project.

Pretty rebellious, huh?

Jonas spots him in the senior parking lot. The tall boy is hunched over at the waist, staring into the driver’s window of Scratch’s car with a frown, running his long, busted fingers through his hair. He jumps when Jonas bumps his shoulder, his shock quickly turning to the warm, familiar smile which makes Jonas’ heart flutter.

“Doing your hair, huh? You don’t seem like someone who cares about your hair,” Jonas teases.

“I don’t, just... fuckin’ hate when the brown shows through,” Mitch grumbles the last few words under his breath, looking back to the window and tugging at his locks exasperatedly. “Means I gotta dye it soon and I _haaaate_ dyin’ it,” he tosses his head back as he whines, making Jonas giggle. For a second, Jonas gnaws on his lower lip, considering whether or not to say the words lingering right behind his lips. He blurts them out as he meets Mitch’s gaze in the window.

“I- I could do it _for_ you...”

“You could? You’d wanna?” Mitch turns now, straightening. Jonas nods, smiling up and clenching his fists hard to keep his lights at bay as Mitch gives him a toothy grin for the first time that day. “Well shit, then! Scratch, we’re stoppin’ at the store.” Scratch slides off the hood of her beater and excitedly into the driver’s seat. Mitch has no idea that Jonas’ stomach does a cartwheel when he pulls him into the backseat and onto his lap, long arms wrapped loosely around his middle as he chatters away with his friends.

The trailer is quiet when they arrive, stolen box of bleach tossed onto the counter as Mitch rummages through the fridge.

“Watcha want? Soda?” he calls as Jonas stands awkwardly near the sink, glancing around the kitchen. He’s still getting acclimated to Mitch’s living conditions. He just isn’t used to it, a house which doesn’t smell like disinfectant, a house where the bags of chips are left open on the counter, a house with ashtrays on every available surface. It’s not bad. Just different. He’s still glancing around, not answering as Mitch nudges him and presents him with a can, suspiciously lukewarm for coming right from the fridge.

“So... how do you do this?” Jonas asks, and Mitch cocks an eyebrow.

“I thought you knew, you offered.” Jonas starts to blush, stuttering out an apology and feeling positively stupid before Mitch stops him with waving hands. “No, no it don’t matter! I’ll teach ya,” Mitch tears open the box and shakes the contents on the counter. “Usually I just like, put that shit on my hands and like... scrub it through my hair and then... wash it out?”

“Okay, I know I said I didn’t know how to dye hair, but I know that’s not right,” he laughs as Mitch grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should probably sit down near the sink, to wash your hair. Like they do when you get it cut.”

“I’ve... never had my hair cut anywhere but here,” Mitch mumbles, and Jonas’ chest seizes with embarrassment.

“I’ll sh-show you then!” he squeaks, pulling a folding chair away from the table and situating it against the cabinets, motioning for Mitch to sit. The taller boy looks down at the chair, then back to him.

“It’s backwards.”

“No, it’s not,” Jonas huffs, tugging gently at Mitch’s arm. “Just sit.”

“Pushy, pushy,” Mitch mutters, but he’s grinning as Jonas pretends to forget he still has a hand securely around his bicep. Softly, he pushes Mitch’s chest, swallowing thickly and trying to ignore the way Mitch’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Do you have shampoo?”

“Yeah, uh... bathroom. Under the sink,” Mitch’s voice is just a touch cloudier than it had been a moment ago, and Jonas curses himself for noticing it. His fingertips sear where he had pressed them into Mitch’s chest as he shuffles away to retrieve the bottle. Mitch’s face is still pink when he returns and turns the faucet on, running his fingers under the water as he looks down at the taller boy.

“Lean back,” he commands, smirking slightly at how quickly Mitch complies. One sharp eyebrow cocked, questioning, Mitch stares up as Jonas grabs a grubby, crusty dishtowel from near the sink and says, “for if it’s uncomfortable.”

“Nah, s’fine,” Mitch shrugs, but lifts his head to allow Jonas to slip it beneath his neck. Jonas can’t help but let out a shaky breath as he presses his fingers softly to Mitch’s temples and coaxes his head back. Mitch’s jaw clenches and he casts his eyes down as he starts to go red. Every time they’re together, boundaries are pushed; lines are blurred between study partners and friends and something else he can’t identify. Mitch is full of firsts for him: the first time he smoked, the first time he skipped school, the first crush on a guy, the first person he’s touched like... this.

It’s intimate. He feels powerful, because usually Mitch is the one touching, but now he’s melting beneath his hands. With just light brushes of his fingertips he threads his way through Mitch’s hair. He’s flushed bright red as he lets the warm water flow over Mitch’s scalp, squirting shampoo onto his hair and beginning to lather it with calm, gentle strokes. His eyes flicker down to his friend’s face.

How long had Mitch’s eyes been closed? His shoulders are still slightly rigid, arms crossed tightly over his chest, but his face is free of any tension. Jonas keeps his fingers working as he scans over Mitch’s face, silently praying the boy won’t open his eyes. He looks so peaceful.

Jonas has never noticed how thick and dark Mitch’s eyelashes are. His eyelids flutter, amber eyes moving beneath them, and Jonas is enraptured. A lattice of faint blue and purple veins decorate his lids, smooth and white up to his eyebrows. Jonas swallows as he notices a tiny line of discoloration, a scar, underneath Mitch’s right brow. His eyes continue to trace down over Mitch’s cheeks. Just under the skin, faded and old and nearly unnoticeable, are a few stray acne scars and pockmarks he’s never been close enough to make out until now. There’s a slight stubble over Mitch’s lip and near his jaw, the light brown hair barely visible, but Jonas grins anyway.

Mitch actually shaves around that pube-y beard of his. Gosh that’s... really cute.

“Is this what I been missin’ out on, not gettin’ haircuts?” Mitch murmurs suddenly, causing Jonas to jump. “S’good,” Mitch hums out a noise of pure contentment and Jonas can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. He rinses the suds from Mitch’s hair and fumbles the gloves on.

“I’m gonna put this conditioner stuff in, then do the bleach. Is that okay?” Mitch hums once more in concession, and Jonas swears when he starts to run the conditioner through Mitch leans into his touch. In a moment of uncharacteristic bravery Jonas presses his fingers onto Mitch’s head, applying light pressure as he strokes through his hair, and Mitch’s sigh is like music. He rinses the conditioner and fumbles with the applicator, carefully squirting the thick dye onto Mitch’s dark roots. Slowly, carefully, he begins to run the bleach through his hair, unsure if he’s doing it right, but he takes the fact that Mitch hasn’t protested yet as a good sign. He’s cautious to avoid Mitch’s dark, shaved sides before the tall boy’s body shifts suddenly, and Jonas yelps.

“Hold still, I don’t want to-” He snaps his mouth shut quickly as he looks down. Mitch’s head is lulled back, his arms have fallen away from his chest which is rising and falling steadily beneath his once-white tank top.

He’s asleep.

Jonas inhales sharply. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to tell Mitch doesn’t sleep often. The dark bags under his eyes are the strongest indication. But if you know Mitch, or watch him as much as Jonas does, you can see the exhaustion which permeates his limbs and lips and walk. His heart warms with pride as he slowly takes his hands away from Mitch’s hair, starting a timer for the dye. As strange as it is, and he _knows_ it’s strange, he leans against the counter to watch Mitch’s chest rise and fall with even, slow breaths.

Mitch is such a wild flurry of movement and energy that Jonas has never gotten to... admire him like this. The sharp prominence of his collarbone enchants Jonas and distresses him all at the same time. He’s glad he has gloves on, or else he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from bringing his fingers to that skin and running across it. He bets it feels paper-thin and smooth stretched over the bone, almost straining. From afar Mitch is thin, strong, sinewy, but up close here Jonas can see the beginnings of emaciation. Beneath his chest, his ribs are starting to become obvious, something Jonas notes is definitely new. The thinness of his wrists, the gauntness of his face begin to spin into a new light, and Jonas stiffens. He had seen the fridge, and though there hadn’t been _much_ , there had still been food in it. That day in the bathroom, when he’d heard Mitch, he tried to write it off as something else.

But here; staring down at the unnatural sharpness of Mitch’s hipbones peaking out above the hem of his boxers, he can’t pretend any longer. He knows she shouldn’t, but he carefully takes a glove off and slowly brings a hand to Mitch’s head. Pressing his palm into the side of the boy’s long face, he slowly caresses a thumb along Mitch’s eyebrow. He freezes when Mitch leans into his hand, but he doesn’t stir any further, so Jonas continues his soft strokes.

“Mitch,” his voice is too low to even be a whisper, but he wants to _say_ something. He just doesn’t know what. _I’m worried_ , maybe? _Can I help?_ might be better. _You deserve to be happy_. Or _I want you to be happy_. Maybe even _I want to make you happy. Could I ever?_ He can’t say any of it, though, so he just continues to rub him soothingly. Things begin to float, then. Only the light things. His free glove rises off the counter. Crumpled paper towels near the sink, a used styrofoam plate, half of an old-looking cookie drift upwards. Jonas can’t help but laugh softly as they begin to spin lazily, orbiting around them. Little items continue to float up, joining the orbit around he and Mitch as he cradles the sleeping boy’s face.

His heart pulls as he gazes down. Scary, angry, mean Mitch Mueller is no longer the front he puts on for anyone, and Jonas is pretty sure he’s one of the only people to ever have seen him like this. God, he looks so vulnerable, so small for someone who’s so tall and long. He looks gentle and soft and warm and serene.

He looks beautiful.

Just as Jonas inhales, realizes he’s so far gone into something he told Sidney was a crush but is now recognizing is infatuation, the timer on his phone begins to ring and the atmosphere breaks. He pulls his hand away instantly as the items drop to the ground, making small noises as Mitch jolts upward.

“Shit,” he grumbles as he rubs his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah,” Jonas’ voice is shaky, almost guilty, but Mitch doesn’t seem to notice. “I still have to, uh... I still have to wash the bleach out.” Mitch grunts and leans back, arms back to being crossed over his chest, a protective barrier around himself. He doesn’t melt under Jonas’ touch as he had before, he stays rigid with his eyes screwed shut as Jonas works. Mitch’s hair is light again, more blonde in some areas than in others and a little blotchy, but for a crappy box dye and his first time Jonas feels pretty darn good about it.

Still, he can’t ignore the way his heart drops when Mitch doesn’t relax under his hands. He’d give his whole life for one more moment of that vulnerability, that moment when it felt like Mitch was almost _his._ So with quaking fingers, craving just one more touch, he brings his thumb back to Mitch’s eyebrow. Mitch jolts and peeks an eye open, but the smaller boy doesn’t stop. He runs the digit slowly, carefully over the scar.

“I’ve never noticed this.”

“Yeah, got it from Freddie. He thought he had pretty decent aim when he’d toss me into those pools but one time he- he didn’t,” Mitch snorts and Jonas laughs softly in response, not taking his hand away. “Thank fuckin’ Christ it ain’t any bigger, though. I don’t need my face lookin’ even more fucked up than it already does.” With those words he leans forward, away from Jonas’ touch, and grabs the towel to dry his hair. Jonas can’t help but notice the way Mitch’s spine rises from his back when he bends, and though his hands itch to stroke against it he pulls them away, back by his sides.

“Hey, this looks pretty damn good, Spots! I’m impressed,” Mitch is staring into the glass oven door, fumbling with his still-wet locks.

“Yeah, not so bad for my first time,” Jonas hums, watching Mitch’s long fingers run through his hair and longing to replace them with his own.

“What I’m hearin’ is that you’re gonna do even better next time?” Mitch turns to look at him, face plastered with that smug, crooked smirk he puts on whenever he flirts. Jonas smirks back. He takes a step forward, his knee pressing into Mitch’s thigh as he threads his fingers through the taller boy’s hair. Mitch’s mouth drops open in surprise and his eyes widen, but he doesn’t make a noise. Jonas strokes over his scalp, messily brushing Mitch’s hair into it’s usual slicked-back style.

“Mhmm,” he hums as his fingers work, “It’s a little patchy, next time I’ll make it more even,” he cocks his head to the side, feigning innocence, pretending that his fingers aren’t trembling, pointedly ignoring the bright red blush on Mitch’s cheeks. As he continues to style Mitch’s hair, the taller boy’s sharp shoulders ease. He rests his elbows in his knees, his body slumping with relaxation, and Jonas warms.

Someday, maybe Mitch won’t lean away from his touch. He may be able to trace his fingers over that sharp collarbone, over his spine, over that little scar and the stubble he’d never known existed. Finally, Mitch’s downcast eyes slip shut as he leans ever so slightly into Jonas.

Yeah. Maybe someday.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING:))))))
> 
> hmu on tumblr if you want to see any fics written i uh cant promise they will be but i love inspiration
> 
> https://littlejedii.tumblr.com/


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